


To warm a winter's night

by valdomarx (cptxrogers)



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Geralt is not good at feelings, Huddling For Warmth, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining Jaskier | Dandelion, Sharing a Bed, or a bedroll in this case
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-19
Updated: 2020-07-01
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:28:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23207008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cptxrogers/pseuds/valdomarx
Summary: It's a bitterly cold night, so Geralt and Jaskier huddle for warmth.aka a whole fic about these dumbasses sharing beds and catching feelings
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 157
Kudos: 1210





	1. Chapter 1

Snow blankets the landscape, falling in delicate flurries and deadening their footfalls to soft thuds. Geralt would prefer to keep riding into the night, but Jaskier is lagging behind and he hasn’t heard a peep about his wet feet for hours.

Geralt hasn’t been traveling with the bard for long, but he’s already learned that when Jaskier _stops_ complaining, that’s when he should start paying attention.

He reins in Roach at the next rocky outcrop which will provide shelter from the snow and gets to work making camp. It’s some time before Jaskier arrives, shivering and glum. There’s a snare of annoyance in Geralt’s chest, though he isn’t sure if it’s directed at Jaskier for not keeping up or at himself for not noticing how far behind he’d fallen.

Jaskier drops to the ground in an inelegant pile and huddles as close as he can to the small fire Geralt has started. He crosses his legs in front of his chest and puts his arms around himself, his fingers blue and swollen.

He looks a truly sorry state, and after a moment’s hesitation Geralt hands him the bowl of stew he’d been planning to eat himself.

“You should get out of those wet clothes,” he says as Jaskier eats, and it sounds gruffer than he intends. The fact Jaskier nods wordlessly and doesn’t respond with some kind of lewd comment has Geralt more worried than his shivering.

He sets out their bedrolls as far under the overhang he can and tosses an extra blanket to Jaskier, who is struggling to undo the buttons of his doublet with his numb fingers and drops it.

Geralt feels that pang of annoyance again, or maybe it’s guilt. He’s clearly going to have to be the responsible one or Jaskier will let himself freeze to death.

“I’ll do that,” he says shortly, smacking away Jaskier’s hands and taking over the task of the small fiddly buttons before slipping the wet fabric off Jaskier’s shoulders, leaving him in his thin undershirt. Geralt wraps the blanket around him and sees signs of life returning to Jaskier’s face.

“Better?”

Jaskier manages a small smile. “I’m glad you bought me dinner before taking my clothes off. I knew you were a gentleman really.”

The jibe sets Geralt’s teeth on edge for some reason, but at least if Jaskier is making jokes he’s not about to keel over and die. Geralt’s not sure when that became a concern, but there it is.

He busies himself with the packs so he doesn’t have to dwell on it. “We should rest,” he says, settling into the more comfortably familiar pattern of grousing. “Can’t have you slowing me down again tomorrow.“

He’s expecting Jaskier to grouse back, or perhaps to take overly dramatic offence. But instead he rolls his eyes and looks… _fond_. It’s not an expression Geralt is used to seeing directed his way, and something inside him coils tightly when he recognizes it.

He pushes Jaskier toward the back of the overhang so he can sleep between him and the open forest. It’s the most sensible arrangement. After all, Geralt is the one with night vision and faster reflexes.

As they settle in the fading light, Geralt is aware of the slow, slow drumming of his heartbeat and a restless buzzing in his fingers. Jaskier lies a few inches away, attempting to cocoon himself in blankets.

Geralt’s hand reaches out before his brain has a chance to process what he’s doing, and he strokes the damp hair from Jaskier’s forehead. Jaskier hums happily, but his skin is still concerningly cold.

That won’t do. Geralt lifts the edge of his blanket in invitation, and Jaskier wastes not a moment in shuffling over and burrowing into him. Geralt’s body runs hotter than a human’s, and Jaskier must appreciate the warmth. Geralt puts an arm around him and avoids looking in his eyes, so very blue and so distractingly close.

Jaskier wriggles in a messy sprawl of limbs which ends up with their legs tangled together and one arm over Geralt’s chest, his head resting on Geralt’s shoulder. He smells of the lavender oil he uses in his hair with the spicy scent of his musk emerging from beneath the damp metallic tang of the snow. A contradictory ache of contentment mixed with yearning rears inside Geralt, the way being close to Jaskier often makes him feel.

“Thank you,” Jaskier says, voice warm like honey. “My life would be far colder without you in it.”

The earnestness of it sets Geralt off kilter. Jaskier can be disconcertingly casual with his emotions, everything he feels in any given moment displayed right there on the surface. Dealing with his moods is like trying to keep firm footing on a ship in a storm.

“Hmm,” Geralt says, noncommittally.

Jaskier leans in and presses his lips to the corner of Geralt’s mouth. Just the tiniest brush. An invitation.

If he turned his head a few inches, he could capture Jaskier’s lips in a kiss. It is a tempting prospect. The entire kingdom knows that Jaskier is a charming and attentive lover, and he’s never seemed distressed by Geralt’s inhumanity. They could have some fun, find some pleasure in each other.

But when Geralt lets himself meet Jaskier’s gaze, he finds such pure, naked affection there that the temptation twists into something painful.

It’s too much like what he secretly longs for: Not just a quick fumble for mutual relief, but something more. Something real. Something to last. And if he breaks what they have now, the way he breaks everything, he’ll be alone again.

It’s not a tradeoff worth making.

He turns away, and maybe he imagines the look of disappointment that crosses Jaskier’s face as he does.

“Sleep, Jaskier,” he says, voice carefully even.

Jaskier gives a tiny sigh. “Alright. G’ night, Geralt.”

“Hmm.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted on [tumblr](https://valdomarx.tumblr.com/post/612955001901498368/geralt-doesnt-get-cold-as-easily-as-a-human-and).
> 
> I love these classic fanfic tropes, they please me greatly and I think we could all do with a bit of pleasing distraction right now. Maybe I shall write more bed sharing? Love that canon shit.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Even more self-indulgent bed sharing! Now with extra bonus mutual pining.

In the days and weeks after, Geralt finds mind wandering back to that night often – wondering what it would be like to kiss Jaskier, whether he’d be shy or enthusiastic, gentle or pushy, what noises he’d make if Geralt were to run his teeth over the pale skin of his neck –

It’s a distraction, and an unnecessary one at that. Jaskier hasn’t given the slightest indication of interest in him since then, and they’ve settled back into their regular routine of long hours of bickering interspersed with occasional minutes of good humor. There is no reason, absolutely none, to change this thing between them that has come to pass as stability for Geralt.

And yet…

There are fleeting moments when he’ll catch Jaskier humming to himself out of the corner of his eye, or watch his nose crinkle with concentration as he restrings his lute, or see him charm some barmaid with tales of Geralt’s heroic adventures, and Geralt will almost believe himself to be worthy of such adulation. In those moments, a surge of heat and melancholy and longing will wash over him and he’ll have to turn away, lest Jaskier notice his pained expression.

Now the faintest possibility of more has wormed its way into his mind, he can’t stop returning to it, poking at it despite the discomfort it causes, the same way he feels compelled to scratch at wounds as they heal even though he knows it will make them scar. 

Jaskier, for his part, has returned to his light-hearted breeziness with no sign of distress or discomfort that Geralt can ascertain. He thinks that sometimes – just sometimes – he catches Jaskier looking at him for longer than usual, that perhaps his eyes track him more closely when he fights than they used to. But likely he’s only collecting materials for his songs. That was why he’d agreed to travel with Geralt in the first place, wasn’t it?

After three weeks of camping rough and taking meagre contracts from tiny villages, they approach a small town for the first time. Geralt himself would just as soon sleep under the stars as in an inn, but he’s concerned for Roach, who hasn’t enjoyed a soft bed or a roof over her head in too long.

They enter the town’s one and only inn as darkness is already falling, and Geralt lets Jaskier do the talking to the innkeeper. Frustrating he may be at times, but Jaskier has a talent for negotiating that puts even Geralt’s skills to shame.

“May I impose on you for two rooms, my good sir?” Jaskier asks with his most charming smile.

“Happy to have guests, but I can only do you one room,” the man says, his expression dour. “The Yule festival’s about to begin and I’m booked out. Best I can do.”

Jaskier turns to Geralt apologetically. Geralt shrugs. As long as there’s hay and shelter for Roach, he doesn’t care.

“We’ll take it,” Jaskier says, and gets to haggling.

They enjoy a surprisingly passable dinner and several flagons of ale that taste only slightly of pond water before heading upstairs to turn in for the night.

The room is tiny, even by the standards of a town inn, and has one small bed. Jaskier’s cheeks colour as he takes it in, and Geralt can only assume he’s embarrassed at not having negotiated a better price for such a small space.

“It’s no bother,” Geralt says, trying to put him at ease. “You take the bed, I’ll sleep just fine on the floor.”

Jaskier’s eyes narrow, some expression passing across his face too quickly for Geralt to ascertain it. “Right,” he says, looking away. “Okay then.”

Once they settle for the night, Jaskier climbs into the bed and Geralt tosses his cloak onto the floor to sleep on. There’s not enough space for him to stretch out, but at least it’s warm and dry. He’s slept in many worse places.

His mind won’t stop racing though, wheeling in useless circles, worrying fruitlessly about whether they’re safe here, whether his swords are close enough by, whether they’ll be run out of town tomorrow, even though that happens far less since he started travelling with Jaskier. This is the downside of heightened senses and acute tactical awareness: a constant low-level hum of anxiety, inevitably picturing the worst possible outcome to every situation, the inability to stem the flow of niggling worries about dangers which lurk in every corner.

He shifts, hoping perhaps that moving so he can face the door fully will deaden some of his concern. 

It doesn’t work. But it does attract Jaskier’s attention, though Geralt had assumed he was asleep already.

“Geralt?” 

“Hmm?”

“It can’t be comfortable down there.”

“Hmm.”

“Come and join me, will you? There’s plenty of space in the bed.”

Geralt stills. He casts a furtive glance at the bed, which does indeed look more appealing than the floor. But far more compelling is Jaskier, propped up on one elbow and with a lopsided smile on his face.

It is tempting, but it is also unnecessary. He steels himself to tell Jaskier so.

“Don’t start with that noble sacrifice nonsense you always do.” Jaskier cuts into his thoughts. “Shut up and get in the bed, will you? Then maybe we can both get some sleep.”

Fine. Fine. Jaskier seems very sure.

He rises and goes to the bed. As he settles into it, it becomes clear that Jaskier had been telling the truth about one thing – it is indeed comfortable – but had been blatantly lying about there being plenty of room. The bed would be small for Geralt on his own, and with two of them there’s no way for them to avoid being in each other’s space.

They do an awkward shuffle, trying to find the optimal position. Geralt ends up on his side, with his chest pressed up against Jaskier’s back. It’s rather nice, actually. This way, when Geralt inhales he smells the tangy scent of Jaskier from the back of his neck, warm and homely and comfortingly familiar.

Because he is weak, even when he should know better, Geralt puts an arm around Jaskier’s waist and holds onto him. Jaskier hums, sounding happy enough, apparently not overly distressed by Geralt’s neediness. 

Jaskier’s presence is the perfect distraction from his racing mind. He feels Jaskier’s heartbeat through his chest, so fast and light compared to his own, but there’s something soothing about its regular rhythm, the fact he can feel Jaskier relaxed and trusting in his arms. The pounding in his head dulls, and finally, he sleeps.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Where would we be as a fandom without Geralt's self worth issues?

Fighting monsters is the easy part of being a witcher, that’s what people don’t understand. It takes years of training and decades of experience, but once you have that, a monster isn’t scary any more. It’s merely a job that needs doing.

The bruxa he’d been contracted to kill had been fast and vicious, but he’d been prepared with vampire oil for his blade and the Yrden sign to trap her. He’d downed a dose of Black Blood the moment he caught her scent, so when she’d thrown him to the ground and dug her fangs deep into his neck, his blood itself was a deadly poison to her. After that, it hadn’t taken long to beat her back and impale her on his silver blade.

That was the easy part. Now is the hard part: dragging himself back to the inn where he and Jaskier are staying, trying to dodge the horrified stares of the villagers who gawp openly at his black eyes, the blood splattered down his armor, and the crawling tendrils of toxicity written across his face. Now, he knows, he looks like the monster he truly is.

He’d rather Jaskier not see him like this, but blood is still gushing from the wound in his neck and he needs to patch it up. He would do it himself, but his arms feel heavy from the fight and his fingers are sticky with blood and viscera. Jaskier has seen worse, and he’s not fled yet.

He avoids the innkeeper and staggers up to their room, the fatigue settling into his bones fast. He pushes open the door and there is Jaskier, rushing to his side, guiding him to sit and stripping off his swords and armor.

Jaskier inhales sharply when he sees the wound on his neck, and his mouth tightens into a thin line, but he doesn’t reprimand Geralt. Instead, he fetches water and rags and gets to cleaning it.

Geralt hasn’t the energy to speak. By the time Jaskier has finished applying salve to the bite mark, he’s struggling to stay upright. Now is the worst part, when the adrenaline has faded and the potions have run their course and the exhaustion arrives in full force, and with it, the pain.

He collapses onto the bed and allows Jaskier to spread a blanket over him. He needs to rest, if only for a while, if only until the toxicity of the potions clears from his system.

This is the time he dreads the most: the absolute vulnerability, the knowledge that were he to be attacked he would be incapable of defending himself. All his energy has been exerted by the hunt, and now he is a shivering husk, not even capable of seeing off a single drowner. A witcher may be a necessary evil in the world, but what worth is a witcher who can’t fight? Who would tolerate an abomination that isn’t even useful?

He needs to sleep, but his skin crawls and his heart races still. He draws the blanket around himself and rolls to face the wall, the light and the colours of the room too distracting. Everything feels on edge; his mind wants to rebel and throw aside this useless, shaky feeling, but his body protests its incapability.

For years he’d never let another living soul see him like this, hadn’t trusted anyone to be near him while he was exposed and defenseless. But Jaskier… somehow Jaskier has wormed his way under Geralt’s skin, made him feel safe enough that he’ll allow it. For his part, Jaskier has learned in situations like this not to talk, for once in his blessed life, and to give Geralt space while he recovers.

Space. That’s what Geralt wants. That’s what he’s supposed to want. That’s what’s appropriate. But as he shivers and the toxins of the potions burn through him, what he truly wants is to know that it was worth it, that his actions have helped people, that they might even save someone. He wants to hear that he is good, even if it’s a lie.

“Geralt?” Jaskier’s voice is very loud in the silence, though it’s barely above a whisper. His senses are still singing, still altering him to dangers that aren’t there.

He manages a grunt.

“You know I’ve got that performance tonight, and it’s not for a few hours, but truth be told I’m ever so tired and I didn’t get so much sleep last night, you know how it is -” Geralt lets the sound of Jaskier’s prattling wash over him, comforting in its familiarity. “- so what I’m saying is, I could really use a nap, but I’ll never sleep on this floor, so I’m going to come and join you in bed for a bit, okay?”

That’s strange. Jaskier is not one for sleeping while the sun is up. But Geralt’s too tired and confused to object, so he hums instead. He can’t very well demand the whole bed for himself.

Jaskier comes over, and his spicy scent washes over Geralt like a balm. Geralt hears him kicking off his boots and shrugging out of his doublet, and then Jaskier is pressing up against his back, warming him from head to toe, and Geralt’s entire body relaxes inch by inch.

It‘s because the bed is small and Jaskier is tired, he knows, but guiltily he lets himself luxuriate in this, lets himself imagine that Jaskier cares for him even when he’s monstrous, that he could love him even if he wasn’t useful.

Jaskier carefully puts an arm around him and some needy little noise escapes him before he can stop it. But Jaskier doesn’t mind; he hums sympathetically and cuddles even closer. Geralt does not deserve this, does not deserve tenderness and trust. But he takes it anyway, because he is greedy and because he can’t keep a lid on his wants when his defenses are down.

Jaskier’s breath puffs over his ear, gentle in its rhythm. Geralt feels the tightly coiled spring inside him gradually unwinding, his heart rate slowing, his breathing evening out. He hovers on the brink of consciousness.

“You did so well,” he hears Jaskier say as he’s slipping into sleep. “You’re a good person, Geralt.” It sounds very far away. Most likely, it’s nothing more than his imagination.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm getting into the vibe of this! I don't usually write chaptered fics or slow burn, but I'm really enjoying writing this one. If you have suggestions or requests for future chapters, please let me know! I'd be happy for some inspiration.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the kind comments! You've really inspired me to keep going with this <3

The winter is slowly abating; the frost clearing into a cool spring and the tress beginning to regain their leaves. But the nights remain cold, a biting chill in the air which nips at the skin and sets teeth to chattering.

Often the smaller villages they travel through don’t have inns, but sometimes a grateful local will offer a place to stay on their property. It happens more often now he’s travelling with Jaskier, Geralt has noticed, as if everyone is as enamored with his wicked smiles and his teasing voice as Geralt is. 

After a job disposing of an annoyance of arachnomorphs at a nearby swamp, a farmer has lent them his barn for the night. Despite the lingering scent of cattle and the cramped, slanted roof, it’s warm and dry and as cosy as could be hoped for.

If sleeping in such modest conditions bothers Jaskier, he doesn’t show it. Though Geralt supposes that a barn is a step up from sleeping in the wilderness, and Jaskier has weathered that without complaint. Mostly.

“Do you ever miss it?” Geralt asks. He’s trying to use his words more, to reach out instead of waiting for others to engage with him. Jaskier has lectured him about the importance of that on several occasions.

“Miss what?” Jaskier asks, pottering around the barn and sweeping the straw into a pile big enough for both of them to sleep on.

“Big crowds. Comfortable beds. _Civilization_.” The last word sticks in his throat. Hoards of hateful humans crammed together and finding new ways to damage each other and the environment around them had never struck him as particularly civilized, but he knows it’s different for Jaskier.

Jaskier tilts his head, considering. “Sometimes. I miss being able to bathe and wear clean clothes whenever I want. And I do love the energy of a raucous crowd.” His face softens. “But other things make up for it.”

Geralt wants so badly for Jaskier to mean him, as if being in the presence of a witcher could be enough to make up for the discomforts of life on the road. But he knows the truth, which is that Jaskier is a man dedicated to his craft, to pursuing adventure and sharing stories, and travelling with Geralt is prime material for that.

That ought to be enough for him, to know that he is fulfilling to Jaskier as a travel companion, that they might even be called friends. But he wants so much more.

He’s been silent too long, and Jaskier has turned away and gone back to laying out their bedrolls. Geralt’s teeth grind in frustration. He’s always too slow. Having to push down his wants takes up too much of his mental space, and it leaves him reeling when he tries to follow a conversation at Jaskier’s speed.

He wishes that he could take Jaskier’s hand, twine their fingers together, show with actions what he can never quite vocalise in words. But his hands feel brutish and rough, and he wouldn’t know where to start.

Jaskier touches him often, and it comes so naturally to him: knocking their shoulders together as they walk or patting at Geralt’s arm when he gets excited. It had been disconcerting at first for someone so unused to physical intimacy, but Geralt has come to appreciate Jaskier’s casual tactility. It makes him feel almost human.

He craves that now, that feeling of companionship, a reassuring touch. It seems like too much to ask though, for Jaskier to comfort him. His fingers twitch at his sides. Perhaps… Perhaps Jaskier won’t mind.

As Jaskier sorts through their gear, chattering to himself as usual, Geralt reaches out and catches his arm. He’s careful to be gentle enough that Jaskier can pull away if he wants.

Jaskier stops mid-sentence and stares down at Geralt’s hand around his wrist, but he doesn’t move away. Instead, he looks up at Geralt, expectant.

“Is it worth it?” Geralt asks, taking a tentative step toward him. “Trading the comforts of home for a barn?” _Am I enough for you?_ he thinks but doesn’t say.

A hint of a smile plays at Jaskier’s lips, like he knows what Geralt means. “It’s worth it.”

Geralt brings his hand up to cup Jaskier’s face, and his skin is soft and warm beneath his fingers. Jaskier leans into the touch, a gentle smile spreading across his face, and Geralt let his thumb brush over Jaskier’s cheek, reverent.

He takes half a step closer, drawn like a magnet, until there are mere inches between their bodies, and Jaskier looks up at him so very tenderly.

The moment stretches, an atmosphere of expectation hanging thickly in the air. Jaskier’s lips part, ever so slightly, and Geralt can’t look away.

And then the barn door opens and Jaskier jumps back, guiltily, like being seen so close to Geralt is shameful, and the moment shatters.

“Erm.” The farmer stands in the doorway, looking awkward. “I brought you some food. I thought you might be hungry.”

“Right, food, wonderful!” Jaskier practically bolts from Geralt and toward the door, collecting the plates and bustling around the barn to find somewhere to lay them.

Geralt squashes down the aching feeling in his chest with brutal force and berates himself for wanting so badly something that he cannot have.

Even once the familiar warmth of Jaskier’s body is settled beside him that night, he sleeps poorly.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really excited to come back to this fic. Thank you to the commenter who suggested the concept of Jaskier having a close call on a hunt and being shaken by it, that was just the inspiration I needed! Your comments and ideas are wonderful fuel for me.

Jaskier is no coward.

Certainly, Geralt knows he is wont to be overly dramatic about minor inconveniences and rather too concerned with the state of his fine clothes. But when Geralt gets a contract on a dangerous beast, when any normal human would shrink back in fear and hide in their homes, then Jaskier _insists_ on accompanying him.

He rather wishes Jaskier would be a little less brave on occasion. His apparent disregard for his own well being is more of a worry that Geralt would like to admit.

Still, he could never really deny Jaskier anything. So when he begs and wheedles to be brought along on a contract for a fiend, Geralt relents, even knowing the danger the beast presents.

The hunt begins as is typical: finding a victim’s remains, following a scent trail, locating the dark area of forest where the creature is hiding during the daylight hours. Geralt prepares his blade oil and his potions, and Jaskier even helps, handing him ingredients as he needs them. Geralt wonders when Jaskier learned so much about alchemy.

The trek through the forest is damp and dim, but nothing his senses can’t handle. Jaskier trails behind him, jumpy and uncertain.

Most people run away when they see a monstrous, inhuman witcher approaching them. But not Jaskier. When he’s scared, when something unexpected happens, or when immediate danger threatens, Jaskier runs _towards_ Geralt. As if he feels safer beside him.

Geralt is usually too distracted by whatever danger Jaskier has just awoken to dwell on his actions. But when he thinks back on these moments, it makes something tug deep inside his chest to recall how Jaskier’s eyes soften and his body relaxes once he gets near him.

On this particular occasion, Geralt smells the beast before it comes into sight. He’s ready with a Devil’s Puffball bomb the moment the creature’s enormous antlers and scabby, shaggy fur come into view. 

There’s little that surprises Geralt at his age, so he’s not taken aback either by the fiend’s hideous appearance or by its stench. Jaskier, however, is a little less hardened to the realities of monster hunting, and gags as the fiend scuttles towards them on four legs, like a twisted, nightmarish version of a deer.

Geralt throws the bomb high and the creature staggers back, quelled for a moment by the staggering boom the bomb causes in the quiet forest. He doesn’t have much time though, so he knows has to move in fast and hard. He rolls in and slashes in quick, ugly strokes with his silver blade before the beast has time to attack. There is no space for compassion here, and he works efficiently, whittling down its strength in a relentless dance of attacks and dodges.

Jaskier has hidden behind a tree stump, mercifully intimidated enough by the sheer scale of the fiend to stay down. But the moment Geralt looks around to check on Jaskier he knows he has made a mistake in switching his attention.

The fiend rears back and lets out a ear-splitting cry, and Geralt can only watch as its third eye, located in the middle of its forehead, flies opens to reveal a burning red ember, coal-like and smoking.

The forest is plunged instantly into a night as black as pitch. Even with his heightened senses, all Geralt can see is that terrible red eye and all he can hear is the ringing in his ears. He staggers back, vertigo throbbing through his head and the pull of the fiend’s magic churning in his very bones. But this is nothing he hasn’t experienced before, so he steadies himself as Vesemir taught him, regains his balance, and rolls away from the beast to crouch concealed in the darkness.

Jaskier, however, has neither his training nor his experience. Geralt smells Jaskier’s fear more than he sees him, the acrid scent filling his nose as he hears the beast roar and tense, preparing to charge.

He knows Jaskier is in front of him, right in the fiend’s path. He can sense the disorientation and confusion coming off Jaskier; he knows how magnetic the pull of that demonic red eye is to humans, compelled to step closer even as they finally comprehend they are approaching their own oblivion.

Geralt moves fast. He charges forward into the darkness, body checking Jaskier out of the beast’s path and hearing him land with a confused _oof_ in the dirt a few meters away. He doesn’t stop to check on him, instead rolling low and coming up within mere inches of the fiend, close enough that he can feel its stenching breath on his face.

He holds his blade low and thrusts upwards in sharp, vicious bursts, puncturing the beast’s lower jaw. He feels bone and skull shattering beneath his onslaught, and the creature lets out a terrible scream of agony. He has to dodge the wild swinging of its taloned limbs but he doesn’t stop, returning to redouble his efforts . With one final thrust he pushes his sword into its bottom jaw, through its mouth and then its brain and out the top of its skull.

The fiend screams once more, a hideous sound of pain and anger that shakes him down to the marrow, and then it falls. As its red eye dims and finally winks out, the dappled light of the afternoon bleeds back into the forest and Geralt feels like he can breathe again.

As the light returns, he goes straight to Jaskier’s side and picks him up out of the dirt, quickly checking him over. No blood, no obvious injuries, no lasting damage save the woozy, confused expression on his face which indicates a human shaking off an enchantment. He’s fine.

He sets Jaskier on his feet and goes about the messy but necessary business of collecting a trophy from the fiend. It takes him a few minutes of concentration before he notices that Jaskier is uncharacteristically quiet, and that the acrid stench of fear is still hanging around him in clouds.

“Geralt,” Jaskier eventually breaks the silence. “What in the _hell_ was that?”

“Fiend,” Geralt says, factually. “They have ancient forest magic. They can hypnotise humans with their third eye.“

Jaskier swallows. “That was the most horrific thing I’ve ever experienced.”

Strangely, Jaskier isn’t waving his arms around or being melodramatic. His voice is small and quiet, and his arms are wrapped around his body. Geralt has never seen him this subdued.

A lingering effect of the magic, he assumes. It’s just a bit of trickery. Jaskier will shake it off soon enough.

“It’ll make for a good song, hmm?” he says, lightening the mood, trying to cheer Jaskier as he’d assume he wants. But Jaskier only pales further and says nothing.

.

Geralt doesn’t understand humans. He realises this more and more as he spends time with Jaskier. From his point of view, today went as well as could have been hoped: the job is complete, no one had been injured, and he’d been paid in full for once. There’s an inn where they can eat and rest. The alderman even thanked him for slaying the fiend. It’s as close to a good day as he gets.

But Jaskier won’t settle. He won’t sit down for more than a minute and he’s been fidgety all night. He hasn’t so much as made a joke, or hummed an annoying tune, or strummed at his lute all evening. Instead, he paces.

Geralt rarely experiences fear these days, but he does remember how it felt as a child. The crushing weight on your chest, the way your feet seem to be glued to the floor, when the air is pulled from your lungs with such force you can’t even scream. He remembers it as a sharp and pointed thing, something acute and of the moment, something to be deflected and overcome. Something temporary.

He doesn’t remember this lingering feeling of distress that’s radiating off Jaskier, long after the danger has passed. The fiend is dead. Why would Jaskier still be afraid? It makes no sense.

Geralt tries to provides comfort the ways he knows how to: he makes sure Jaskier has the larger portion of food, and he moves so he is not blocking the door and Jaskier can always see the exit.

It doesn’t seem to help, and Jaskier remains quiet and withdrawn. Geralt never thought he’d miss Jaskier’s incessant chattering, but he finds himself uncomfortable with the silence that stretches out without Jaskier’s words to fill it.

He determines he will tell Jaskier the legends about fiends, where they come from, what their weaknesses are, which organs can be cut out and sold or used for potions. For him, having this knowledge of a creature makes it less intimidating: here are the facts, and with those you are forearmed should you ever need to face one.

It doesn’t seem to work with Jaskier. He barely gets out a few words about the differences between fiends and chorts before Jaskier cuts him off, with a terse, “I’ve had quite enough of fiends for one day.”

It’s odd, because Jaskier usually loves to hear about monster classifications. It’s one of the things Geralt likes most about him, the way he pays attention to the things that Geralt says and the way he appreciates the finer details that others overlook. But Geralt is out of ideas and Jaskier is still on edge, so they retire to bed.

.

Their room is spacious and even has two beds, making it practically luxurious by their usual standards. Yet Jaskier is still downcast.

“It’s okay,” Geralt tries one last time, stumbling only slightly over his words. “The fiend is dead. It can’t hurt you now.”

Jaskier looks at him, and myriad emotions parade across his face in a matter of seconds, racing by too fast for Geralt to comprehend. “I know,” Jaskier says eventually, bottom lip wobbling. Tears are welling in his eyes. “It’s just -”

He trails off, and then he’s bounding across the room and clutching Geralt, fisting his shirt tightly in his hands. “I really thought I was going to die.”

“Oh.” Geralt stills for a moment, uncertain how to react to this flagrant display of emotion. But he puts his arms around Jaskier, and it’s easier that he would have thought to hold him and to stoke gentle circles into his back, the same way he’d calm Roach if she were scared. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

Jaskier sniffles and tucks his face into Geralt’s neck. “It was horrible,” he says, voice wobbling. “It was like every dark, awful feeling I’ve ever had was magnified and I _knew_ the fiend was going to rip me apart and even then I was drawn to it. Like I _wanted_ it to kill me. I couldn’t stop it.”

“It’s okay,” Geralt says again, unsure what he could possibly say that would help. “I wouldn’t let anything happen to you.”

Jaskier pulls back and gives him a watery, lopsided smile. “You wouldn’t,” he agrees. His eyes flick to the bed Geralt has taken under the window, and then to his own bed on the far side of the room. “Could I…” he trails off. “Could I sleep in your bed tonight? I’m sorry, I know it’s silly, but I really feel -”

“Of course,” Geralt interrupts him. That’s easily done, and if it makes Jaskier feel better, then it’s no imposition on him. “Of course you can.”

Jaskier manages a smile, a real smile, at that and Geralt is already glad he can be useful. If he’d known that something as simple as physical contact would have helped Jaskier, he’d have offered it sooner.

They shed their clothes and lie together on the uneven straw mattress, each on their back and staring at the ceiling. Jaskier flops to face away and curls up in on himself, bringing his knees up to his chest and holding his arms around his legs.

That doesn’t look like a happy situation, but Geralt is hesitant to impose himself. What comfort could he offer? Still, Jaskier had asked to sleep here, so he’s clearly not averse to Geralt’s touch.

Geralt carefully, gently, rolls over and puts an arm around Jaskier’s waist. He‘s ready to back off in an instant should Jaskier show signs of being uncomfortable but… instead, Jaskier sighs softly and relaxes into him.

Good. That’s progress. Geralt shuffles a little closer so that Jaskier can feel his warmth all along his body, and Jaskier uncurls against him with a low hum, bringing his hand up to lace their fingers together.

“You’re safe with me,” Geralt murmurs, voice quiet and, he hopes, reassuring. “I’d never let anything hurt you.”

Jaskier lets out the tiniest sob and Geralt holds him closer, determined to show Jaskier that he’s safe even if he doesn’t know how to put it into words. Without thinking about it, he drops a chaste kiss onto the crown of Jaskier’s head, the wavy hair soft beneath his lips.

The tension leeches out of Jaskier’s body bit by bit, and with each breath in and out that pungent smell of distress lessens and Jaskier’s natural scent of lavender and linseed and _home_ returns. Soon enough, Jaskier slips into sleep as Geralt holds him close.

It’s incredible, really. Every other human Geralt has met has wanted to run from him. They’ve seen his monstrous visage and sensed the aura of death that surrounds him and they’ve felt discomfort and horror and fear. And yet, here is Jaskier, who runs towards him, who follows him around through the mud and the muck just to watch him do his job and sing his praises. And more than that, in his darkest moments, Jaskier feels _better_ for having Geralt around. He feels safer in his presence.

It is an extraordinary gift, to be blessed with such trust, and one which Geralt can only hope in time to live up to.


End file.
